


Roadhouse Gossip

by rei_c



Series: Cannibalism Aside (Samn) [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Don't Examine This Too Closely, Drinking, Gossip, Harvelle's Roadhouse, Hunters & Hunting, Implied/Referenced Torture, Incest, Intimidation, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Killing, M/M, POV Original Character, Poor Life Choices, Rumors, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 09:30:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5451800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Men gossip more than women -- especially these men, especially this topic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roadhouse Gossip

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously by now you can tell that this series jumps around chronologically. Um. So there are some off-hand references in this one that will be expanded upon in later stories. And stuff.

The Roadhouse looks crowded when Ron pulls into the parking lot. He's relatively new on the scene, only been in this life for a few months, and even though he's looking forward to a beer and a meal in a safe place, he's not sure he's ready for the type of people Ellen warned him about the first time he stumbled in. He's here, though, drove five hours after a rough hunt where he got tossed around more than he'll ever admit to. Every single square fucking inch of him aches, he wants to get drunk and let the Roadhouse's wards hum around him, he's gonna go in.

The gravel crunches under his feet as he walks towards the steps and the front door and Ron stops halfway there, one hand going to the gun on his hip. He's -- he has the feeling, the odd sensation, that he's being watched. He doesn't see anything, though, doesn't hear anything either, and he can't figure out what would have made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up straight. Ron shakes his head, huffs at himself, but he still picks up the pace. 

He opens the door to the Roadhouse with a relieved sigh, welcoming the noise, the smells, even the suspicious looks of the hunters gathered inside, as the wards test him and then let him slide on through. Ron heads straight for the bar, gives Ellen a nod and half a smile, and she slides a beer over to him without either of them saying a word. He picks up the bottle, tilts it in her direction as thanks, and chugs half of it down just like that. 

He's never tasted anything so good before in his entire life. 

Ellen gives him the space to drink and it's not until she replaces his empty with another cold one that she asks, "How's the hunt been treating you?" 

Ron shrugs. "The last one was tough," he says, "but I got through it -- and I knew I had this waitin' for me," as he lifts his bottle. 

Ellen flicks her bar towel at him, says, "You're just a flirt like the rest of them. And hey, this is a good night -- everyone seems to be in a decent mood. You should meet some of the others." Before Ron can respond, Ellen adds, "I'd start with that corner over there. Loud and a bit trigger happy, but aren't we all." She slides over a bottle of Jack and a handful of clean tumblers, says, "Take that over -- on the house -- and they'll make room for you." 

Ron does as she suggests, feels a little ridiculous as he carries the bottles and glasses over to the corner crowd. He shouldn't be shy, damn it, he's a fucking thirty-six year old man, there's no reason to be hesitant -- except that he knows he's the odd man out, everyone's packing a significant amount of weaponry, and they're all willing to shoot first and ask questions never. 

When he gets closer, Ron realises that he knows one of the guys, not well but by name, so as the table quiets down at his approach, he lifts his chin and nods, says, "Hey, Greg. Long time, no see." Everyone else at the table looks to Greg sitting in the corner, taking Ron in, and Ron would never admit to feeling the tension he does standing here. 

Greg finally just smiles, says, "Yeah, man, same to you," and like that they make room at the table for Ron and his whiskey.

\--

It's two in the morning. Half of the Roadhouse's patrons have left and everyone still here, on the drunk side of tipsy, crowds together in the corner. They're telling war stories, what they've done here, when they were there, a nest of vampires down south, a siren off the coast. Ron takes it all in stride, figures that a good percentage of the stories are completely made up and the rest are exaggerated beyond belief. Still, it's interesting to know, to listen, hell, just to be around other people who know what's out there. 

There's a lull in the conversation and Ron leans forward, asks, "What about demons?" because no one's mentioned them yet. Everyone at the table goes silent, completely silent and still. "What?" he asks. "What did I say?" 

A few of the others glance at each other, have silent conversations that Ron wishes he could translate. 

"I know you haven't been in this business long enough to hear," one of the older, grizzled guys says, "but stay away from anything demonic. You find an omen, you get out of there. You think you see someone with black eyes, get three states away as fast as you can. Just leave; don't look back." 

Ron frowns, confused. They're hunters, damn it, they should not be leaving demons around to do whatever they want. "The fuck are you talking about?" he asks -- not confrontational, just curious, because something has these guys, every single one of them, spooked. 

One of the others, Mick, Ron thinks, is the one to answer, apparently the only one brave enough to answer. "It's the Winchesters," Mick says. His voice has gone low, quiet; his eyes flick to Ellen, at the bar, before fixing on the glass of whiskey in front of him. "They're the ones that take on the demons. Always have, always will. It's their specialty, you might say. Oh, they'll kill just about anything but demons get 'em off." 

The guy next to Mick nods, adds, "I heard that if they can't find a demon to play with, they just summon one up, let it loose and give it a head-start before they chase it to ground." 

"Winchesters?" Ron asks, head spinning. Stories, tall tales, hearsay -- shit like this can't be true. "I've never heard of them before. Who are they?" Another look makes its way around the table and Ron sighs, says, "Come on guys, just lay it on me, all right? I need to know those things." 

Greg's the one that answers this time, says, "Winchester boys, Sam and Dean. Their daddy was a hunter, spent his whole life going after the demon that killed his wife. Got it in the end, too, with Samuel Colt's gun. Rumour has it John got possessed and one of the boys killed the demon along with John, cold as can be. Not sure what truth there is to it, could just be a wild imagination and the bottom of too many empty bottles, but no one's seen John in a long time." 

"So how old are these boys?" Ron asks. "I mean, if they're still hunting demons, they must've started pretty young." 

"Raised on the road," one of the others says. "Pro'ly why they're so fucked up. John didn't do 'em no favours, that's for sure." 

Ron looks around, sees the tension in everyone's shoulders, all of the hunters either throwing back their whiskey or topping up their glasses and emptying them as fast as possible. "Why hasn't anyone stopped them?" Ron asks. If he thought it had gone quiet before, it's deader than a cleansed cemetery at midnight now. "At least reined them in. I mean, if they're as bad as you're saying." 

Guy named Caleb, sitting a couple chairs down from Ron, snorts. "Rein in those boys? If you met 'em, you'd realise how fucking stupid an idea that is. They only see each other, only have room enough in the world for each other. Didn't even listen to their daddy when he was alive and, lemme tell you, Johnny was not easily ignored. But those boys could. They just shrugged him off and did what they wanted. Damn good hunters, the best there are, I'd put money on that, but they're killers at heart." 

"Don't always stop at killing the monsters, either," another person mutters. 

Like that's uncorked a bottle of bewildering emotion, the statements come fast and furious from all around the table. 

"Always willing to take on a hard case or lend a hand." 

"Something wrong with them, both of them." 

"Better trained than Seals." 

"Older one's wild, less like a person and more like something feral -- would hate to meet him in the woods on a dark night." 

"If I didn't know better, I'd say Dean's possessed." 

"Sam's wrong, too. Not feral, not wild. Unnaturally controlled." 

"Give you shivers to meet their eyes. I swear Sam's eyes glow in the dark, glow yellow. Ain't nothing natural 'bout that."

"Saw 'em once, huntin' a nest of fangs. Just the two of 'em walkin' in the front door of a safe house at midnight, nothing but blades on 'em and those weren't even dipped in dead man's blood. Took out seven, maybe eight of the freaks inside of five minutes and they came out laughin'. Covered in blood and laughin'." 

"Heard they levelled a town once, just killed everyone in it." 

Ron blinks at that, stares at the guy who said that because, fuck, a town? Now he knows everyone's trying to pull one on him, ha ha, haze the new guy, right. "Oh, come on," he says. "That'd be all over the news. There's no way anyone could ever..." He trails off. No one's laughing. 

Caleb's the one who finally throws back the whiskey in his tumbler and answers. "Small town, rural Indiana," he says, and there's a line of bitterness in his voice that Ron thinks comes from more than just hearing the stories. He has to know them, maybe he's hunted with them, and Ron takes in the missing finger on Caleb's right hand, the jagged scar going down the side of his face, the old marks around his neck like someone tried to carve in the impression of garotte wire with a fucking sharp knife. "Sixty people, maybe? The town was pretty well-known in the area for their apples. The boys found out they'd made some deal with a fertility god, something to help their orchards. In return for the blessin', they sacrificed a male and female to the god every spring." 

Ron's fascinated, asks, "What'd they do?" 

"Burned the orchards to a crisp," Caleb says, "then killed everyone in town so no one could bring the god -- and sacrifices -- back. Burned the whole town and everybody in it. Couldn't even find half the bodies in the dust once the boys were through. Found a shitload of salt, though." 

"If you go after them," Greg says, reading the back of Ron's mind, "then they'll kill you before you see them coming. And it won't be quick. So do what the rest of us do, okay? Stay as far away from them as you can." 

There's a cough behind them and Ron turns, sees Ellen standing there with narrowed eyes and her arms crossed on her chest, towel over her shoulder. "I know you aren't talking about what you're talking about," she says, "so I'm not gonna kick you out -- tonight. But you know better, Caleb, out of everyone here. No one so much as hints at those names in my bar."

Caleb clears his throat, says, "Sorry, Ellen. Just -- trying to give the kid here the run-down." 

Ellen holds Caleb's gaze for a while, then her eyes move to meet Ron's. "Stay away from them," she says, implacable. "And don't you dare fucking say their names in this building again or you're out. For good. But if you see them and you get the chance, you kill them. You come back here with their dead bodies, I'll give you anything you want." She pauses there, narrows her eyes just a little bit more, and echoes, "Anything." 

With that, Ellen goes back to the bar, starts putting away clean dishes with more force than necessary. Ron's dying to know what happened, why Ellen hates them so much, why she won't let anyone even allude to the Winchester boys, but he's not gonna ask. He saw the hatred in her eyes, deep and pure and unending, but he saw the pain, too. 

"Guess we should get going," Mick says, into the silence. "Whiskey's gone and Ellen'll be wantin' to get some sleep." 

A chorus of murmured agreement circles and five minutes later, everyone's disbanded, gone out to sleep in their cars, find a motel, get driving to the next hunt -- everyone but Caleb and Ron. They're on the porch, sharing a pack of cigarettes, and Caleb catches Ron shivering, that feeling of being watched coming back, gliding barely-felt traces down the inside of his arms, right over the lines of his veins. 

"They're nearby," Caleb says, between drags. "That feeling? That's the boys. If you ever feel it again, get the hell out. People've tried taking Ellen up on her offer before and each one of them's been sent back to the Roadhouse in pieces." He pauses, looks at Ron, and says, "Literally." 

"What'd they do to her?" Ron asks, inhaling one last hit of nicotine before dropping the cigarette butt, putting out the embers underneath his boot. 

Caleb lets out a breath between his teeth. For a moment, Ron thinks the older hunter isn't going to answer, but finally Caleb says, "John -- their daddy -- was on the hunt that got Ellen's husband killed. She never forgave him for that. But the kids. John dropped 'em off here once. Sam couldn't've been more than thirteen, fourteen, I can't remember, but they did something to Ellen's little girl, used to be such a carefree fiery thing. She's never been the same since." 

"Something?" Ron asks, word catching in his throat. Jesus, these kids sound like animals. Putting 'em down might the best thing. 

"No one knows," Caleb says, shrugging before he puts out his cigarette. "Girl lost too much blood to remember. Something else happened after that, not sure what, Ellen won't talk about it, but it was bad. Real bad. Don't be stupid and try to take her up on her offer," he says, changing subject. "Best thing to do is just let them go and do what they're gonna do." 

Caleb starts to head down the steps, toward his car, and Ron calls out, "How do you know them?" before Caleb can get too far. 

There's a caustic, tired laugh, one that echoes in Ron's ears. 

"They used to stay with me, sometimes, when John needed space on a hunt," Caleb says, his back still to Ron. "Don't like to admit it, but I taught them a few things when I thought -- well. Before I realised." 

"And your lessons were so good," a voice says. Ron flinches, looks around wildly and finally sees the shadows coalesce into the form of two men. They're both tall -- and built, jesus. The shorter one, and hell, he has to be over six feet, doesn't walk so much as he prowls, eating up the ground like some kind of giant cat or wolf. The other one, slightly taller, mop of messy hair, might not be so intimidating if he wasn't wearing an armband of throwing knives and didn't have -- fuck, he's got yellow eyes, they weren't joking. "A lot of people owe you a lot of thanks, not to mention their lives." 

Caleb's shoulders have gone tense. Ron reaches for his gun and the taller one says, "I really wouldn't, if I were you," in the kind of voice that makes it clear he doesn't care either way. "Besides, we're just here for a chat. Need to ask Caleb something and then we'll be on our way."

Ron meets the guy's eyes, swallows and lifts up his hands, clearly unarmed, clearly surrendering. 

"Bit risky," Caleb says, "coming to the Roadhouse." He turns around and Ron -- Ron sees hate in Caleb's eyes, yeah, but they're flooding with loss, with hopelessness, with such complete and utter sadness that he nearly feels it himself. "Don't know why you showed yourself now when you've been tracking me for a week."

The shorter one laughs and the sound -- dear god, that sound, it's more than chilling. "Wanted to get in on some of the gossip going around," he says. 

"And hey," adds the other one, whose eyes have lost the golden tinge and gone back to what must be normal, hazel irises looking out of uncannily ancient tip-tilted fox eyes. Ron thought it might make him look more human but it doesn't help, not at all. "Thanks for the introduction. Makes us get all tingly to know you're talking about us."

 _Tingly_? the shorter one says. _Ain't that my line_? 

Even though it's out loud, there's something different about the words, about the way they're said. Ron knows instinctively that they weren't for him or Caleb. This must be the way they talk to each other and fuck, the emotions in that teasing little sentence are giving Ron chest pains. 

"Sam," Caleb says, and the tall one lifts his hands, one shoulder, in apology. "Can you just -- at least let the guy go before you do anything."

If the tall one's Sam -- that's right, they said it was Sam who had the yellow eyes -- then the shorter one's Dean, which means it's Dean who looks at Ron, it's Dean who has the twitching fingers and the urge, Ron thinks, to utterly destroy him, it's Dean who has him swallowing and taking a couple steps backward, nearly tripping over a loose plank at the hunger he sees in Dean's eyes. 

_Been a while_ , Dean says, and he reaches over to his brother, lets his fingers dance over the knives on Sam's upper arm before they stroke down Sam's arm. _Haven't had a hunter in months_.

Sam grins, takes Dean's hand and nuzzles into it, licks it and then sucks one finger into his mouth. Ron blinks, sure that he's imagining this because -- incest, too? No wonder everyone said these kids were fucked up. 

_He wouldn't be a challenge_ , Sam replies. _Too new._ He leans into Dean's side, one hand going right on Dean's ass, mouth leaving teeth marks along the clean lines of Dean's neck. Dean just tilts his head, gives Sam more room to work. God. _We'll find a new one soon, promise, and if you want a hunter, we'll get a hunter. Got those new needles to try out._

 _Nerve clusters_ , Dean says with a sigh -- a happy sigh -- oh holy fucking hell. _Holdin' you to that, Sammy_. "All right, new guy. Go on, get out of here." 

Ron practically runs to his car, feeling eyes on him the whole way. He feels like shit for leaving Caleb there, alone with them, but hell, he's not sticking around. He peels out of the parking lot, picks a direction and starts going as fast as his car can take him, and keeps one eye on the rearview for a good three hours. 

It's not cowardice. It's a matter of survival.


End file.
